Chiller (harry styles)

4: Distractions

My breathing rate dramatically increases, and I can see a gleam in his eyes that's dark, one which overshadows the emerald shade. Whenever I am in danger, there is a certain feeling I get in the pit of my stomach, a sense of wrong. I don't feel it now, as I imagined I would. I feel fluttering in my stomach instead, and it's strange and uncomfortable, and before I even know it I find that my feet are edging away, and I take a step back from his touch. Harry sighs, and runs one of his hands through his hair. I notice he's taken off his raggy headband accessory, and his curls are messy and all over the place. I quickly look away from him, because he's went from that look that makes me want to blush to studying my face like there's something on it that shouldn't be.

"You really should consider that the word "no" generally means to not do what you wanted, the opposite of "yes", please come and interview me while I'm matching it up with a room full of sweaty, cigar smoking gang members." He spits out, as if the words carry the disgusting power of posion.

I shrug. I need to get to know him for a grade. I'm keeping my record shiny and straight. Nothing so small as a shack of pool playing men anyone's grandmother could probably find on jail tracker was going to stop me.

"I doubt they were all in a gang." I comment.

Harry makes a face like he wants to laugh, but he's holding it in. He desparately wants to seem in control, like he is too weak to crack a smile at my humor.

I press again with a questioning look, but all I recieve is silence. Since Harry doesn't say anything, and I need to keep the conversation going, I try to think of something else to talk about with him. It is the reason I am here. I need to know him, understand who he is.

"Is this what you do when you're not spray painting graffeti and failling your classes at school?" I ask him, and it sounds like I'm trying to be funny.

Actually, I know I am. Harry thinks he's too cool to laugh at my jokes, but he'll come around one way or another.

Harry rolls his eyes, and narrows them at me, like daggers to a dart board. I can see the humor in them though, no matter how hard he is trying to hold it in.

"I hate your accusations." He finally comments rudely.

"Oh, com'n." I tell him, swatting his arm playfully. "Lighten up, bad boy."

At this he does smirk. His eyebrows shoot up, and I watch as he walks back over to the front of the table and lifts the long stick back into his hands.

"You say that as if I'm the enemy." I hear him say before leaning over, and lining up the balls.

I decide not to comment on that, because I know I'll end up saying something honest, and it will just piss him off. And it's not that I care if he's mad or not. I just don't want him mad at me, now, while we're alone in this room together among a bunch of casino merchandise and pool tables.

Plus, the guy scares me. I feel vulnerable around him, and that is not a feeling I want to endorse.

I place my hands on the side of the table, and lift myself up onto it. Harry pokes the red ball, and knocks down a bunch of other balls as it makes its way into the far corner hole. When he looks up my eyes are on his hands, which are gripping the pool stick frieghtfully, and I quickly turn away.

"What is that you're wearing?" Harry asks me as he sits down the stick, and leans back aganist the table behind him.

I look down at my white evening dress. It covers me well, and I definitely don't fit in here with Harry, with any of them. I pat down the skirt, and watch as it shimmers under the few lantern ligts inside, most of which look as if they were created from old mason jars and broken shot glasses. My face starts to heat up. What does it matter what I'm wearing? On the other hand, our assignment is to get to know each other. I've always been a good student. It's something my father requires and always has. So I feel like I should explain everything about me to him, because he is going to need to know about me too if I want that A.